Southern Africa (Part II.III): June 2017

Princeton, New Jersey

Monday, 4 September 2017

My own inconsistency astounds me—rather, is it a lack of commitment? Wherever I place the blame, my going without writing over the second half of my spell in South Africa has left me six weeks on which to reflect. Battling with loneliness played an important part of this time, a topic that I discuss in my second sermon, which was published to this blog preceding this post; therefore, in its place, and so as not to repeat myself, I would like to reflect on some of the particularities of my carryings-on as I did with my previous post.

Saturday, 17 June. After spending an afternoon working on church affairs at Bootleggers Coffee Co. in Kenilworth, I joined Fernanda and her friends Michelle and Lola for a walking tour of Bo-Kaap, the colourful Malay quarter of Cape Town. We were led up and down streets of quaint pastel abodes that were historically homes for freed slaves. Walking these streets is a trip through spectrums of time and colour. The tour opportunely closed at the doors of a beer garden, where Fernanda, Michelle, Lola and I enjoyed a drink before going our separate ways for dinner.

Wednesday, 21 June. While I spent most of my Monday working at home in Constantia (something I promised I would avoid on my days off) and my Tuesday evening working at Bootleggers, I gave myself some time on Wednesday to have a delightful afternoon cuppa with Zizipo, who soon became my best friend, and a decent evening tonic with Fernanda, who soon thereafter and unexpectedly lost interest in our amity.

Friday, 23 June. After a long and lonely day at work, I met with the youth group to discuss the details of Holiday Club, the Uniting Presbyterian Church in Southern Africa’s version of Vacation Bible School. With the help of Tammy, a leader from years past, we nervously and time-constrainedly delegated leadership and considered the state of décor. The theme was ‘L’vaya Mzansi Road Trip,’ so we brainstormed ways in which to make the hall convey a theme of journeying.

While I had intended to spend the evening at a braai (a South African barbeque) with Fernanda et al., plans were canceled and I was left frustrated and free. But Zizipo, whose heart embodies benevolence to a fault, invited me to join her and her friends for an evening in, where I was introduced to mieliepap, a traditional South African dish made from maize that has a taste and texture much like thickened grits. Into the early hours of morning, I laughed and storied and feasted with Zi—as I soon came to call her—and her friends, who were a peculiar medley of people that included a yacht-cleaning scuba diver and two Antarctica-bound nitrogen scientists. By the time I headed home, I had long forgotten those who uninvited me to their braai.

Saturday, 24 June. After an early worship practice at church, I was expecting to climb Table Mountain with ‘the un-invitees,’ but—would you believe it?—they canceled on me. Instead, I treated myself to a day of exploring the suburbs. I began with a cuppa at a place called Tribe, listed as one of the better coffee bars in Cape Town; unlike my so-called friends, it did not disappoint. Before the jitters could set in, I meandered through Salt River, an older, industrial quarter just beyond the CBD (central business district). Right in the heart of the it and on Main Road is an old biscuit mill that has been converted into a hub for Etsy-esque hipster huts of leather goods, clothing, and jewelry. I walked away, as difficult as it was, empty-handed.

With the better part of the morning behind me, I drove a good thirty minutes out of the city to Bloubergstrand, a coastal suburb that overlooks the Mountain from across Table Bay. I walked along the beach and let my feet sink into the sand while the reflections of the setting sun blindingly sent waves of soon-to-be summer heat with the sand-soaked breeze. I let the surf steal away the stagnant frustrations of canceled plans; in return, she offered rhythms of squalls and squawking seagulls, and composure.

I could not climb Table Mountain this late in the day, but I could find Wally’s Cave on Lion’s Head. So, I raced the winter sun across Cape Town, parked where I had once before, and ran up the trail. My 100-meter dash got me nowhere. An elderly and easy-paced couple soon passed me as I struggled to catch my breath. I guess I would have to take it slow. As the ‘How to Find Wally’s Cave’ article says, I took a left at the first set of ladders and a right around the broken bench. And then, rather anticlimactically, I reached a little hole-in-the-wall “cave” that was littered with empty cans of beer and the graffiti-ed names of lovers and friends.

Sunday, 25 June. Following church service, we held the first ‘Mowbray Together,’ a congregation-building event during which we played games, discussed church life, shared a meal, and broke down barriers. As a racially and socioeconomically diverse house of God, Mowbray continues to struggle to find unity. This post-service event, I think, helped the congregation become more family.

Afterwards, I went to the home of Sylvia (the kindest of motherly figures in all of Cape Town), where I had a second lunch and played Uno with Zi and my soon-to-be friends Yanga, Pretty, Rejoice, Tammy, Six and Yonela, another hodgepodge group with a readiness to add me to their family. I ate my share of the mieliepap and lost every game of Uno until the sun started to fall and the day became night.

Monday, 26 June. I rolled out of bed in the quiet of the time of night after the crickets have gone to sleep but before the birds have started to sing. Without opening my eyes because my bedside lamp was far too bright, I slipped on my swimsuit, brushed my teeth, and climbed into my car. Paige—the girl with whom I coffee’d and sunset’ed on the 13th of June—stumbled out of her house and into the passenger seat as the 5 o’clock radio program began. She slept through the darkness the whole way to Gansbaai, where we planned to dive into shark-infested waters.

We sleepily sipped coffee and tea while the captain of our diving vessel instructed us on what to do if a great white happened to make its way into the cage. We then signed indemnity contracts, boarded the Megalodon II and sailed out towards Shark Alley. The waves were rough and water haphazardly wetted us onboard as the skipper zoomed passed jagged rocks and over white caps. The water was cold, but the air was colder. The captain tossed bits of a granola bar to gulls that effortlessly surfed the boat’s draught. The stern eddied ultramarine depths. Our hearts beat hard with the slap of the keel against the division of man and man-eating blue pointer. The sun hid behind grey clouds. The chum stank.

When the captain dropped anchor, the crew dropped the cage and we slipped into wet suits and waited. My stomach turned over, but I could not tell if it was due to nerves or seasickness (probably both). An hour passed. The captain reassured us that the smell of the chum had probably spread a few nautical miles down the ocean current and the sharks were probably on their way. Another hour. He told us that the rains a few days prior made visibility poor; maybe they were lingering just below the boat—just be ready. Another hour. ‘Sharks are wild animals. You can never predict where they are.’ Another hour. The skipper pulled up the anchor and raced back to the dock while we peeled off our wet suits without a single sighting.

Paige slept the whole ride home. After dropping her off and letting my mother know that I was still alive, I drove to Hout Bay for a lonely beer at Urbanity Brewing Co., where I reflected on the many letdowns the month of June had brought, hoping that these last few days would either go well or, at least, without failure.

Friday, 30 June. After three days of ordinariness, which included regular working hours at Mowbray, evening drinks at one of the many pubs in Observatory and nightcaps with Graeme in Constantia, Friday brought thick fog and heavy rain and hesitation. The group with whom I Uno’ed on Sunday had taken off of work to climb Table Mountain with me. We were not supposed to climb Table Mountain in the rain, because the cable cars shut down and the rocks were too slippery. But this was my only chance: the next month was going to pass by quickly because of the L’vaya Mzansi Road Trip. So, we crammed seven into my Volkswagen Golf and made our way to the base of Platteklip Gorge.

On our way to the trailhead, we passed by the cable car station, where an employee of the nature reserve warned us not to climb. Without much heeding, we continued on and up with promise. Although it is the easiest route from base to summit, Platteklip Gorge has a seven-hundred metre elevation gain over a mere three kilometres (it climbs nearly half a mile in just under a two-mile span). As a well-traveled path, Platteklip is probably a cool staircase climb when the weather permits; however, with the rain, our hike became more like a swim, as stairs became rapids and we went from ascending a mountain to ascending a waterfall.

We almost made it to the top. I think. The fog was so thick that we could not see more than fifteen metres up or down—it felt as though we were suspended without anything above or below. But after almost two hours of hiking, we decided to call it quits. The rocks were getting slipperier with the continued rainfall, and we had had one too many falls. So, maybe just fifteen metres from the top, we turned around. At the trailhead, we wringed out our clothes and headed home.

But, instead of letting the month end in failure, we made a delicious supper, lit a bonfire (of course the rain stopped by the time we got back to Sylvia’s), played Uno and laughed the night away. While I may not have seen what Cape Town looks like from the summit of Table Mountain, I did enjoy a day well spent in good company. With a month left of my stay in South Africa, I was starting to find my place.